CHAPTER 22

Not Fit to Survive

(May 27, 2015)

I decided to pay a visit to Danny’s father on his birthday. I had learned through the grapevine that Danny had been given a three-year prison term. The state of California had been doling out tougher and tougher sentences for drug-related crimes and Danny just happened to be caught in the flood of offenders who were going to be held up by the Governor as “examples.” Danny had picked the wrong century to be an addict. It was possible that he wouldn’t be released until the next millennium. I knew his father was probably taking it pretty hard.

When I showed up outside his apartment door I was surprised to hear Bone Thugs-N-Harmony blaring from within.

“Uh, Mr. Oswald?” I said, knocking on the door with one hand while balancing a plate with the other. The plate was wrapped in clear plastic and held only a fraction of the delicious birthday meal Heather had cooked earlier in the day. She thought Danny’s father might appreciate the gesture, since he was no doubt spending the day alone. Or so we assumed.

“C’mon in!” I heard the old man yell.

I pushed open the door to see Mr. Oswald and Karen Griffin dancing in the middle of the room, grinding their hips together to the beat of the music. Griffin’s clothes were completely rumpled as if she’d rolled around on the carpet one too many times. One of her breasts had popped out of her tube top and was jiggling around with great enthusiasm but no one seemed to care, particularly not Mr. Oswald. His clothes were just as dishevelled as Griffin’s and despite the fact that he was nearing eighty his eyes sparkled like crystals and his grin was as wide as a church door. Sitting cross-legged around the coffee table were the Neo-Gothic Hipster Peanut Gallery accompanied by a gaggle of other strangers. They were all snorting white powdery lines off the table’s glass surface.

“You here for the party?” Mr. Oswald said. He didn’t seem to recognize me, which was hard to believe. At one time I had been visiting Danny almost every day.

“Uh, I just dropped by to say hello. I brought some food.”

“Set it down in the kitchen. Maybe we’ll get to it later.” The old man did a little Irish jig, then reached out for Griffin’s exposed breast. She allowed him to stroke her nipple for a couple of seconds, then danced away to the opposite side of the room. He pursued her, laughing the entire time.

I entered the kitchen and set the meal down on the counter. The place was a mess. The garbage bag was stuffed with so many empty beer cans that they had spilled over onto the floor. I considered placing some of the cans back into the trash when I heard a phone ringing; it seemed to be nearby. I pushed aside a pile of crushed Heineken cans on the counter to find a light blue phone lying there waiting to be answered.

I picked up the receiver and said, “Hello? Oswald residence.” A mechanical woman asked me if I would accept a collect phone call from L.A. County Jail. I said yes, then pressed 1.

A couple of seconds later I heard a Latino-sounding voice say, “You a fag?”

I paused for a moment before I said, “Rob?” (Or was it some other felon entirely?)

I suddenly realized I had never mailed the money order or the free copy of the Book of Mormon I had promised Rob.

“Hey, you a fag?” the voice repeated.

Had Danny scrawled his own number on the wall of the jail? In the past I might have engaged Rob (or whoever the hell it was) in a conversation just to learn the answer to that question, but now it didn’t seem worth it somehow. I hung up and left the kitchen.

Danny’s father was dry humping Griffin on the couch. He seemed to be enjoying it. So was she. The Peanut Gallery couldn’t have cared less. In the past I would’ve stuck around just to find out how this situation had arisen. Now I didn’t even have the energy. I don’t think anyone even noticed me leave.

I closed the door behind me and started to head back down the stairs. Something stopped me, however, drew me upwards to the roof.

I was amazed at how peaceful it was up there. I stood three stories above the street, one foot resting on the ledge, staring down at all the people walking back and forth on the trash-strewn sidewalk below. Pigeons surrounded me, cooing and pecking at the tiny pebbles that littered the rooftop. Perhaps they were searching for something to eat. Hell, I thought, I should’ve brought them the birthday meal.

I glanced around me, trying to view the place as Danny had viewed it on those nights so long ago when he used to sneak up here and practice his routines for the stars. At the moment, of course, it was the middle of the afternoon, but nevertheless I could imagine the full moon and the stars and the cool night wind blowing against Danny’s back. Behind me was a small bungalow that housed two washing machines and a dryer. Through the open doorway I noticed cigarette butts littering the bare concrete floor. I could almost see Danny sitting there in front of the washing machine at midnight, watching his clothes spin around and around, biting his fingernails as he nervously whispered the new routine he’d try out at Prospero’s the following night.

I turned to the pigeons and told them some of my old standard jokes, the ones that used to draw big laughs. I could no longer remember why I’d been so fond of them. I felt like a ninety year old man flipping through a tattered photo album of old girlfriends, wondering why he’d wasted so much of his lifetime chasing after so many worthless women. I tried out three of the jokes, but the pigeons simply looked at me with blank stares and said, “Coo?” I knew exactly how they felt.

I took one last look around, scoping out the taller buildings that surrounded me, spotting one or two unfamiliar faces staring down at yours truly with idle curiosity, then headed back toward the stairs.

Part of me missed Danny so much it hurt, burned deep down inside me, while another part of me never wanted to see him again. The sole personality trait we’d ever shared was a sick sense of humor that the rest of the universe didn’t understand. Somehow the situation had reversed; Danny and I had been left out of the loop while the rest of the universe seemed privy to an esoteric punchline neither of us could ever comprehend. If given the choice, I think I would’ve elected to remain out of the loop.

May 27th was a day of coincidences. Seeing Griffin made me think of Esthra. As I climbed back into Heather’s car I wondered what she and the rest of the band were doing now that Mike was in jail. I’d read in the L.A. Record that the prison had granted Mike the right to record a CD behind bars, but I’d heard nothing more about it for a couple of months.

Imagine my shock when I turned on the car radio to hear the DJ announcing a brand new song by Doktor Delgado’s All-American Genocidal Warfare Against The Sick And The Stupid live from within the hallowed halls of some local prison. I turned up the volume to hear Mike say, “This is a song I wrote a few weeks ago. It’s called ‘Not Fit to Survive.’ It’s a song about … well, I don’t know … just being alive, I guess. You know, it’s kind of like about … well … aw, fuck it. Just listen.” Feedback rolled out of the speakers like waves of pure anger, followed immediately by Mike’s voice, a voice that came across as tortured and serious and yet sarcastic and playful at the same exact time.

I’m not a Catholic priest with my cock up some boy’s hole I’m not a Hollywood whore with my lips around a Senator’s pole I’m not a cop with a baton and a burning cross

I’m not a journalist with the Pentagon for a boss

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

I’m not a President with a fat Swiss bank account

I’m not a white serial killer with human heads to mount

I’m not a Gulf War vet with a medal and a melting face

I’m not a scientist trying to destroy the human race

I’m not a school teacher with a ruler and a gun

I’m not a comedian with another idiotic pun

I’m not a CIA agent selling crack to teens

I’m not a writer with a bestseller on the screen

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

I’m not a psychiatrist shoving Prozac Pez down kids’ throats

I’m not a politician rigging all your damn votes

I’m not a doctor handing out toxic pills

I’m not a pharmacist with a prescription to kill

I’m not a librarian who doesn’t read books

I’m not a sedated wife who puts out and cooks

I’m not a rock star who can snort and sing

I’m not a coked-up pilot in a flying wing

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

I’m not a poet with a pretty little rhyme

I’m not a machine that can tell the exact time

I’m not a landlord who spits in your food

I’m not a colonel on Paxil and ludes

I’m not a terrorist planning a revolution

I’m not a biologist into human evolution

I’m not a televangelist with a tainted soul

I’m not a chemist into population control

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

I’m not fit to survive

Not fit to survive

As Mike’s mind-warping guitar solo drew the song to a close I wondered if that line about “a comedian with an idiotic pun” was about me. If so I found it rather strange. After all, I was never a big fan of puns and I was no longer a comedian. Perhaps I wasn’t fit to survive either then.

Perhaps.

I switched off the radio before the next song could begin. Right then a line from an old Lou Reed song floated up out of the recesses of my memory. How did it go exactly? Oh, yeah. “Some people are like human Tuinals.”

I drove the rest of the way home without music. Sometimes silence is better.